Against the fall of night
by xphylia
Summary: Twilight comes for all of us


Title: Against the fall of night  
  
Author: X-Phylia  
  
Disclaimer: The X-Files are not mine, but the owner is   
  
kind enough to let us play with his toys.  
  
Category: MA  
  
Rate: PG13  
  
Spoilers: Late Season 7  
  
Summary: Twilight comes for all of us.  
  
This wasn't beta'ed, so I apologize for mistakes.  
  
Disclaimers as usual, including the title, which was   
  
shamelessly stolen from an Arthur C. Clarke novel, who   
  
in turn stole it from a poem by A.E. Housman.  
  
AGAINST THE FALL OF NIGHT  
  
By X-Phylia  
  
I left the office early yesterday. It had never   
  
happened to me before, but I felt something strange, a   
  
dull pain in the chest, as if I couldn't stand being in   
  
that basement another minute.  
  
When I arrived home, my first impulse was to get rid of   
  
my work clothes, put on my jogging outfit and hit the   
  
road. I did need to clear my head, but it didn't take   
  
long to realize that the last thing I needed was   
  
running -I was incredibly tired. So I simply walked, no   
  
destination, no rush... the sun was about to sink and   
  
it was getting cold, which didn't exactly help my   
  
gloomy mood. I found myself looking at the sky, so   
  
beautiful. I've always been one of those people who   
  
find comfort in the realm of infinite skies, who need   
  
to reach out to feel grounded. Orange-tinged clouds   
  
painted against a blue-purple canvas, an exquisite   
  
combination of simple elements -light, air, water. The   
  
walls of the buildings were turning oppressive and my   
  
feet found their way to the Mall, where I could   
  
appreciate the sunset with less visual interference.   
  
The chilling wind was permeating through my less than   
  
adequate garment, but I didn't want to go home, I   
  
didn't want this image to fade, just yet. I lay down on   
  
the grass to contemplate DC's busy sky, and felt a   
  
strong urge to fly, to leave -and I don't mean in a   
  
plane. The dull pain in my chest intensified when I   
  
realized that my current position was more like that of   
  
an earth-bound worm than of a free, majestic eagle.   
  
It was the story of my life, tantalized by what seemed   
  
so palpable but could never attain; forever condemned   
  
to watch, to wait, to yearn. I closed my eyes and took   
  
a deep breath -with any luck passers by would take me   
  
for a jogger catching his breath. But if I curled up   
  
and stayed quiet as I felt like doing, someone would   
  
end up calling 911 first and asking questions later. So   
  
I got up painfully, wrapping my arms around my chest in   
  
a feeble attempt to conserve some body heat, and   
  
started to walk. The sky no longer looked like an   
  
object d'art; darkness was closing in intensifying my   
  
sense of loss and hopelessness. I wanted to go home, I   
  
wanted to hide. What else can a man do, against the   
  
fall of night?  
  
*******************************************************  
  
After three unanswered phone calls and five minutes of   
  
fruitless pounding at Mulder's door, I finally decided   
  
to use my key to let myself in. It was over 7 pm,   
  
twilight, and the apartment was filled with a gloomy   
  
light that somehow spoke of loneliness and desolation.   
  
I had to repress the impulse of turning around and   
  
leave, only my concern for Mulder -whom I haven't seen   
  
or been able to contact since he had fled our office   
  
the day before -kept me from running away from that   
  
oppressive atmosphere. I wondered if I would ever be   
  
able to talk him into painting the walls in white, that   
  
dark yellow color was awfully depressive.  
  
He wasn't on his couch watching TV, in fact the   
  
apartment was eerily silent. Clothes were strewn   
  
carelessly over the floor on the way to the bathroom:   
  
sweatshirt, running shoes, socks... I picked up the   
  
discarded t-shirt and rolled my eyes. In the front, in   
  
big green letters, it read "moose on the loose". What   
  
was *that* supposed to mean? Gee Mulder... only you   
  
could wear something like this. The bathroom, as could   
  
be expected, was quite a mess, but this time I simply   
  
closed the door and headed to the bedroom. He was   
  
there, lying quietly in the middle of his bed, his   
  
hunched form silhouetted by a thick blanket.   
  
And he was crying.  
  
I stopped on my tracks, luckily I was wearing rubber   
  
sole boots and not noisy pumps. Apparently he hadn't   
  
heard me, or if he had, he had chosen not to   
  
acknowledged me. All my alarms were in full tilt,   
  
needless to say. What in the world had happened to him   
  
now? My fingers curled into a fist as anger surged   
  
through me. Hadn't this man been to enough already? His   
  
hushed sobs reverberated through my soul -grown up men   
  
didn't cry like that unless they were in immense   
  
emotional agony. Before I knew it, tears were rolling   
  
down my face too.  
  
For the longest ten or fifteen minutes I stepped   
  
outside, reluctant to intrude. If he hadn't called me,   
  
or even bothered to return my calls, it was because he   
  
wanted to be alone, he needed the intimacy. But now I   
  
was there, he had to know I would check on him if he   
  
disappeared on me. How could I just stand there and   
  
watch him like that?  
  
"Mulder?" I called him softly, hoping not to startle   
  
him as I approached the bed. He didn't move or react in   
  
any way. I spotted Samantha's journal lying open over   
  
the bed. Mulder knew it by heart already, but he   
  
insisted on reading it again and again, as if trying to   
  
convey an occult message. The journal was exceptionally   
  
well-written for a fourteen-year-old, I often wondered   
  
if Samantha was a naturally talented writer or if her   
  
ordeal had given her early insight and sensitivity.  
  
I gingerly sat on the bed with him, this time he   
  
recoiled like a turtle inside his shell, burying his   
  
face deeper into the pillow. With the corner of my eye   
  
I detected a disturbing object on his night table: an   
  
open vial with pills. I grabbed it immediately: Xanax.   
  
Could this be the reason why he seemed so out of it? Or   
  
was he trying to...?  
  
Oh, God. It all fell into place with crystal clarity.   
  
Mulder had been through too much, too soon. The   
  
journal, the pills, they were all part of his recent   
  
tragedies. He had needed anti-anxiety medication for a   
  
while after the brain surgery and heavy duty   
  
painkillers after he was bitten by snakes, but he went   
  
on. Then in a flash, his family, his hope were yanked   
  
away from him, and he still went on. You can be oh so   
  
strong, Mulder, but one day something snaps and you   
  
can't find the strength to get out of your bed.   
  
Even though I wanted to pick him up and hold him dear   
  
life, my instinct told me to let him be, to give him   
  
space. Mulder and I had reached a level in our   
  
relationship where we felt comfortable enough around   
  
each other to address almost any topic, *almost* being   
  
the operative word. And yet, he had run away from me   
  
yesterday, ignored me all day today, and apparently was   
  
not interested in my company right now. The need to   
  
know what was wrong was overwhelming, but I willed   
  
myself not to pry anything from him, and to let him   
  
come to me in his own terms. After what seemed a long   
  
battle with himself, Mulder turned around and all but   
  
threw himself to my arms.   
  
He caught me off-guard, I confess. Honestly, I didn't   
  
know what to say to him. My medical self wanted to   
  
examine him, make sure he was okay and not overdosed   
  
with tranquilizers. However, it was my instinct I   
  
listened to, and I let him be.   
  
*******************************************************  
  
When I couldn't resist the temptation any more, I   
  
finally took her unspoken offer of warmth and   
  
acceptance. After my time alone, and I hadn't been able   
  
to find the release I needed, so I gave myself to her,   
  
let her touch me. But even though there is something   
  
cathartic in feeling fragile, yet safe in the arms of   
  
your loved one, not even Scully could take away the   
  
pain that was consuming me that night. I could cry and   
  
she will hold me, seek her touch and feel her soft   
  
hands caressing me, but all the comfort in the world   
  
wouldn't be enough to change my fate. All the truths I   
  
had bled searching for paled in comparison to this one.   
  
I was a dying man, my brain was falling apart and I   
  
couldn't do anything to prevent it -except maybe throw   
  
myself back into the claws of the people who had done   
  
this to me in the first place. Otherwise, I'd wither   
  
slowly, in pain, just like my mother would have had if   
  
she hadn't resorted to extreme measures. Her death was   
  
an open wound that was far from healed, and now I had   
  
the perfect excuse to get even. Who would blame me? I   
  
thought about my family, torn apart by a fateful event   
  
I spent a lifetime taking the blame for. My father was   
  
murdered, my sister was tortured, my mother committed   
  
suicide... and I, the last one standing, finally found   
  
absolution only a few months before death. Samantha was   
  
dead before I started looking for her, my father died   
  
in my arms apologizing to me, and my mother chose to   
  
die alone, depriving me of the chance to say goodbye,   
  
to comfort her. So maybe it wasn't all my fault. Maybe   
  
I could let go, finally be free. But I guess my   
  
happiness, just like Scully's daughter, was never meant   
  
to be.  
  
I cried in her arms and she never asked why. I wondered   
  
if it was her feminine intuition whispering her the   
  
answer or if she believed I had just cracked up. Or   
  
maybe she didn't really want to know, and simply did   
  
what I would have done for her if the roles were   
  
reversed. Whatever the reasons, I could only be   
  
grateful. Even if it didn't do much for me, this would   
  
comfort her once I were no longer there. With any luck,   
  
she'd hang on the memories and find peace in the fact   
  
that she had been there for me, giving me shelter,   
  
wiping the tears from my face. She would know that,   
  
unlike my mother, I had chosen to stay by her side   
  
until the end, despite the pain and the desperation   
  
that threatened to overcome me. In the meantime, I   
  
would do my best to offer her at least a little of   
  
happiness. I promised myself -and her, silently- that   
  
from now on I'd live day by day, as if I didn't know my   
  
fate.  
  
Because, after all, who does? 


End file.
